


even the mayfly mocks me

by snapchat



Category: MXM (Band), YDPP (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Mentions of hospitals, briefer mentions of daniel daehwi jihoon, side pairings include 2park, very tiny gwanghyun/donghyun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapchat/pseuds/snapchat
Summary: Youngmin retires from being a superhero.Busan might not need him anymore, but someone else might.





	even the mayfly mocks me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raindropcakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raindropcakes/gifts).



> happy late-ass birthday to ♡ k ♡ and happy late-ass birthday to ♡ sewoon ♡ !!! my favorite may babies :')
> 
> title inspired by [wi ing wi ing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hr4GaRPX6cM) by hyukoh.
> 
> (there are mentions of hospitals, a car accident, 'permanent' injuries, and descriptions of someone jumping from a building (without suicidal intent))

Current scenario: His new next-door neighbor is right outside, setting a neatly wrapped Styrofoam plate of rice cakes on Youngmin’s doormat. The only barrier between them is a seriously beat-up (long story) door with a finicky peephole. 

“Answer the _door_ ,” Donghyun stage-whispers from behind Youngmin’s shoulder. He’s not very great at the art of subtlety and Youngmin expresses this sentiment by shoving Donghyun’s face away from him. 

Current scenario: His new next-door neighbor is right outside, empty-handed. He must have spent the entire morning making his rounds, dropping off plates of _sirutteok_ to every occupant of the third floor before finally, finally winding back to his own unit—but not before leaving the final plate at Youngmin’s doorstep. 

“You should thank him,” says Donghyun. He’s given up pretending to whisper at this point and Youngmin flinches, tears his gaze away from the eyehole if only to give Donghyun a Look™ that clearly says: _shut up_. “You should tell him who you are,” Donghyun persists.

In an ideal world, Youngmin _would_ thank him. He might even open the door, say it face-to-face, invite him in, offer some of his mother’s famous persimmon tea. Then, they could talk. Talk about the history that this technically-stranger doesn’t even know they have. In an ideal world, maybe Youngmin could apologize then, go to sleep at night feeling less burdened by the inexplicable guilt of his actions. 

But this world is filled with petty crime, not-so-petty crime, every single category of crime, human vices made all the worse by an increasing tendency to give in to them.

This world is far from ideal, exceedingly far from perfect.

Youngmin would know. After all, the last five years of his life have been spent fighting the city of Busan’s Absolute Worst in defense of the city of Busan’s Absolutely Defenseless. 

He doesn’t move an inch until his very unfortunately kind next-door neighbor disappears from sight. 

It takes a few seconds for the panic to fade. Youngmin lets out a soft sigh. 

When he slumps against the wall, forehead pressed against the cool surface of the the door, he _physically hears_ Donghyun roll his eyes.

“I’m telling you, you should have said something,” Donghyun nags. 

“It’s not that easy,” mutters Youngmin. “How am I supposed to say, ‘Hi, neighbor. Welcome to the unit. By the way, I’m the superhero that ruined your chances at achieving your dreams because I thought I was doing the right thing. Sorry. Friends?’”

Donghyun frowns. “Exactly like that?” He pauses. “Maybe add in another ‘sorry’ for good measure.”

(“You know,” Donghyun says later, brutally honest as always, “ever since you stopped being _Busan Boy,_ you’ve become much more of a coward.”)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lim Youngmin retires from the lucrative and morally-rewarding career of fighting crime when he is just shy of twenty-four years old. 

The city of Busan is a little heartbroken at the unfortunate news, but the superhero scene has come a long way since he first tumbled into it at a sprightly nineteen, ditching university and other aspirations to figure out what made him (and the subway train he accidentally stopped—with his bare hands!—from crushing a drunk man on the tracks on a barren Sunday night) so different from the rest of the world. There are a handful of heroes now that the city can depend on. It’s not just him. There’s _Danik the Panic_ , _Snaggletooth Tiger_ , _The Sparkle_ , Hwang Minhyun (who isn’t quite a superhero considering he doesn’t don the mask and cape—but he’s helped Youngmin file his reports at the police station more than once, so maybe he’s an honorary vigilante for his super-patience alone); and the list goes on. 

Knowing there are vigilantes left to rely on is promising and it makes the transition from hero to civilian easier. 

The Mayor recites an impressive speech in front of City Hall on the day of Youngmin—no, _Busan Boy_ ’s retirement. He regales a story of bravery and determination, compares Youngmin to Busan’s oceans, tells the citizens that their city wouldn’t be where it is today if it weren’t for Busan Boy’s herculean efforts. 

(To be honest, he’s definitely exaggerating, but Youngmin just stands still and waves for the cameras when prompted.) 

No one questions it. The audience bursts into applause and Youngmin tries to stomach his emotions when, later, a young boy wearing a replica of his costume tearfully tells him he’ll be missed. He’s _Busan_ Boy for a reason and seeing the city heartbroken nearly makes him reconsider. 

They don’t talk about the real reason why Youngmin’s stepping down. They never do. And it’s been weeks since his retirement and Youngmin’s pointedly avoided acknowledging it, bringing it up.

“Even though we should talk about it,” Donghyun grumbles, taking an aggressive bite of his toast. Crumbs float from the burnt bread and land on the hardwood floor of their shared apartment. Youngmin thinks to say something but he leans down and swipes at the mess instead. “Have you ever, like, I don’t know, brought this up to someone that isn’t me or Woojin? Because we both know you’ll never listen to me and my impeccable logic, but maybe if you told the Mayor, or better yet, some other impartial third party that would be able to tell you, objectively, that you’re being _stupid_ —”

Youngmin sighs. “I’m not going to change my mind because some stranger thinks I made the wrong decision.” 

“ _I’m_ not ‘some stranger,’” says Donghyun. “Neither is Woojin, and he thinks you’re being a dumbass too.” 

It’s only been a month or two since his retirement and Youngmin has, admittedly, been finding it difficult to pass the time. He’s gone from being on high-alert at all hours of the day to fumbling with meager attempts at occupying himself. He’s taken up knitting and as it turns out, he sucks at it. He sucks at a lot of things that don’t involve fighting crime, evidently. 

“Hyung.” The serious expression on Donghyun’s face makes Youngmin nervous because he knows whatever Donghyun’s about to say is going to make him second-guess a decision he’s trying, desperately, to commit to. “You know it wasn’t your fault. Accidents happen, but they’re—they’re what that friendly American painter guy calls them! Happy accidents! If the only other option was to die—”

“I made the decision for myself,” Youngmin interjects. He doesn’t mean to sound stern but he’s tired of engaging in the same-old arguments every day. He’s even more tired of the way that these same arguments whittle at his resolve little by little. “It wasn’t just because of _him_ or just because I felt bad. I mean, I did—and still do—feel bad, but that wasn’t the only reason. I… I… I thought about it. I promise, I thought about it for a long, long time. And in the end, the only option that made sense… that made me feel the closest thing to _happy_ … was stepping down." 

Donghyun's thoroughly unconvinced. And truth be told, so is Youngmin. 

"You have to stop blaming yourself," Donghyun murmurs. He shakes his head, grip tightening around the strap of his backpack. He's late for class again and Youngmin smiles faintly in apology. This has been a reoccurring conversation as of late and he wishes they'd take a longer break from it. "I'm going to get my ass kicked by my professor if I miss another quiz but seriously, hyung. Isn't it about time for you to stop beating yourself up over something entirely out of your control?"

Youngmin parts his lips, poised to protest, but Donghyun lifts a hand up to cut him off.

"Save the speech," Donghyun sighs out. "We'll talk later." 

"You get mouthier by the year," Youngmin comments. "Is it puberty?" 

"Haha, very funny." Donghyun rolls his eyes but there's a hint of a grin threatening to peek past his exasperation. "Maybe I wouldn't have to be so mouthy if my roommate got his shit together." 

"There you go again."

"Bye, hyung," Donghyun replies with a laugh. 

The door closes behind him and Youngmin's left in an empty apartment with toast crumbs in the palms of his hands and the dull reminder that this really is what he told himself he wanted. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It happens on a particularly rainy night. 

Monsoon season is especially bad in Busan. The locals will gripe from beneath their umbrellas, blaming it on the ocean they're otherwise proud of on sunnier days. 

Youngmin’s no exception; he’s Busan born and raised, and the rain draws the same sort of reaction out of him. 

He knows better—especially now—than to blame the weather for what happened that night. If anything, he should be thanking it for draping the memory in a curtain of gray.

That’d be a lie, though; Youngmin remembers the night too vividly. Remembers exactly what he’d been doing—picking up a bottle of Pepsi from the convenience store per Jihoon’s request—before the accident. There was a clamor near the _GS 25_ and he was wearing his _Busan Boy_ attire when his feet led him there automatically, the plastic bag containing Jihoon’s soda abandoned on the wet sidewalk. 

He’d seen it not a second later: a pile-up of cars and a handful of people running from the streets toward safety. There were already passersby dialing 119 on their cellphones by the time Youngmin made it to the collision. The reactions of the civilians were nothing out of the ordinary, the awed gasps and whispers a familiar response to his signature mask and cape. 

Clearing the dented cars out of the way was an issue, and the rain did its part in killing any chance of fire. As it turned out, there was only one boy still left in the rubble, and Youngmin stayed by his side even as the ambulance came to take him to the nearest hospital. 

The feeling of relief that always bubbled at the base of his chest when there are zero casualties to report warped into something less grateful when he heard the doctor’s prognosis. 

_“He’s alive and in stable condition,”_ the doctor had told him, tension ebbing in and out of his words. _“He has nerve damage that’ll likely lead to permanent difficulties in the long-run.”_

Youngmin waited for a _but_.

 _“He’s an artist,”_ the doctor explained. _“These sorts of injuries mean more than the world to people like him.”_

(When he remember that fateful night, it stings as though it happened yesterday. He remembers leaving the doctor's office with an inexplicable ache in his chest.

It just hurt in every metaphysical way possible when Youngmin leaned against the wall beside room 405’s door and tried to pretend he couldn't hear muffled sobs and the lasting omission: 

_“I didn’t ask to survive.”_ )

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Youngmin manages to avoid his neighbor and finishing his conversation on _Confrontation, and Moving Past Being a Giant Coward_ with Donghyun for a solid few days. It helps that he’s busy at his new job at the bookstore down the street and it doubly helps that his next-door neighbor (“Stop acting like you haven’t stalked him on Instagram already,” Donghyun’s voice chides at the back of Youngmin’s mind) seems to have a rigidly consistent schedule that always starts early in the morning. 

It’s why he’s both caught off-guard and spiteful of a God that is definitely out to get him when Youngmin loiters at the entryway of the apartment building, staring wistfully outside at the unrelenting downpour and feeling particularly unhappy about Donghyun borrowing his only umbrella—right as none other than his next-door neighbor stumbles down the stairs behind him.

“Ouch,” his neighbor (“You know his _name,_ ” Youngmin’s conscience, voiced by Donghyun says), otherwise known as Jung Sewoon, mumbles. It hasn’t even been a year since their last encounter on a similarly rainy day and Youngmin holds his breath, hoping Sewoon might ignore his presence. “Oh.” But of course, he doesn’t. “Um. Are you…” 

Youngmin swallows the lump in his throat and turns to face Sewoon, the smile on his lips stiff as a board. “Hi,” he says weakly. “You must be the new resident?”

“I am.” The rain works hard to fill the silence. “I’m Sewoon, Jung Sewoon. It’s nice to formally meet you. I think I ran into your roommate the other day… Donghyun, right?” 

“ _Oh_.” Donghyun’s a traitor for not bringing this up to Youngmin, but then again, maybe this really is karma for being so evasive the past week. “Yeah, Donghyun’s my roommate. It’s nice to meet you, Sewoon. I’m Youngmin, Lim Youngmin. Uh, thank you, by the way—for the, uh, for the rice cakes, I mean.” 

Sewoon takes a long look at Youngmin’s face, expression unreadable before it fades into a small smile. “Do you need an umbrella?” he asks, gesturing vaguely to the large, black one in his hand. “I can walk you to wherever you need to be if you’d like.” 

He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes automatically flit toward Sewoon’s hands. To the blind eye, they look fine, normal, but the only thought running through Youngmin’s mind is _are they really okay?_

“I—I don’t want to impose,” Youngmin stuttered out belatedly when he realizes he hasn’t answered Sewoon’s question yet. “It’s just a… drizzle.”

Thunder claps in the distance and the rain becomes impossibly heavy.

Youngmin bites his tongue and wonders who up in the sky has a vendetta against him.

Sewoon’s already unfolding his umbrella, touch gentle as he taps his fingertips against Youngmin’s wrist, gesturing to the exit. “I don’t mind,” he says. 

“Oh,” Youngmin says. He must seem dumb, like Sewoon’s words are going in one ear only to fall in waves out of the other. “Sure. I’m just heading to the bookstore down the street.” 

There’s a twinkle in Sewoon’s eye, a faint glimmer indicative of epiphany. “I’m heading there too,” he explains, umbrella gasping in the midst of his sentence as he unfolds it completely. Sewoon takes a careful step toward the downpour and Youngmin stumbles behind him. “Do you know if they sell children’s books? I have a library I’m trying to fill.” 

“We do. A library?” 

This time, Sewoon doesn’t elaborate until they’re both beneath the umbrella, the soles of their shoes already wet with rain. It’s almost like he forgets the question, gaze directed forward and then upward, as though he’s trying to gauge the extent to which the sky is crying. 

“I teach kids,” Sewoon finally replies. He returns his attention to Youngmin, and there’s something intimidating about the steadfast way that Sewoon just _stares_ at him. “There’s a preschool in the neighborhood behind ours. I teach there.”

“That’s—” _A relief_ , Youngmin doesn’t say. “That’s cool. I work at the bookstore we’re heading to.” 

“That’s cool,” echoes Sewoon, faint smile teasing the corners of his lips. 

And just like that, the conversation ebbs into nothing. 

By the time they get to the bookstore, Youngmin’s floundering for words again, trying to figure out how best to say _thank you_ and _actually, can I apologize?_ at the same time. In the end, he doesn’t say anything, only fidgets as Sewoon calmly closes the umbrella and shakes it thrice before entering the bookstore behind Youngmin.

“Uh,” attempts Youngmin, “I’ll see you around then?”

Sewoon does that _thing_ again—that thing where he just sort of stares at Youngmin, eyes boring holes through Youngmin’s head. He looks like he wants to say something, lips parting ever-so-slightly before pursing to a close. 

“Has anyone ever asked you—” Sewoon cuts himself off and shakes his head, chuckling quietly. “Never mind. I’ll see you around then, um… I’m only a year older than Donghyun and he calls you _hyung_ , so… if it’s okay…?” 

Youngmin almost laughs. “You can call me hyung,” he says, sparing Sewoon from the mess of words he seems to be wading through.

“Great.” Sewoon lifts his head, meets Youngmin’s gaze with a sort of boldness that almost seems uncharacteristic. “I’ll see you around then, hyung.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

His parents don’t really get it when he tells them, voice wavering, _“I want to save the world.”_

At first, they think Youngmin’s talking about a medical degree and they’re elated. And then, when they realize he’s close to crying, they stop clamoring and fall to complete silence soon after when he brings out the beat-up costume he’s been masquerading in late at night. 

“A superhero,” his dad states. “You want to—you want to fight crime?”

To put it concisely, all Youngmin wants is world peace. It’s a broad goal, something he’s heard time and time again on the Miss Korea pageants his mother has recorded on VHS. But he means it. He wants world peace, wants to use the strange abilities he’s been granted for good. 

“Oh, Youngmin, _sweetie_.” There’s a furrow between his mother’s brows and this time, it’s her turn to bite back tears. A mother only cares for her child’s well-being and it’s clear from the get-go that she doesn’t think this is what he’s meant to do. 

It’s disheartening. He hadn’t expected resounding support, but he’d expected something more than heartbroken disapproval. Maybe some consolation, some thinly-veiled encouragement.

After all, there’s no one else in this city, in this country, _on this planet_ , that understands what sort of anomaly Youngmin is _but_ his parents. They’re the ones that had to replace fear with steadfast acceptance when the super strength (age eight), the super speed (nine and three-quarters), and even flight (eleven—and extra ironic because he used to be scared of heights) started to kick in. 

“Why would you want to…” _Dad_ trails off and shakes his head. “Why would you want to do something silly like that when you can just run the restaurant with us?”

His mother clutches Youngmin’s hands. “Your dad is right,” she says insistently. “Working the restaurant is so much more stable, so much _safer_ than… than…” 

He gets it. He doesn’t want to, but he gets it.

He gets that his parents are just scared for him, have always been scared for him since the second they realized—since the second he himself realized—that things could never be normal. 

He gets that his parents want the best for him. 

And it hurts, but he gets that maybe, deep down, his parents don’t _know_ what’s best for him. 

The truth is this: there’s most certainly an endless list of things he’s better off doing if he wants to play it safe, wants to keep things as comfortable as possible. It’s _not_ that he wants to hurl himself into the face of oncoming danger. 

It’s just—Youngmin has always been bright-eyed, pointed toward the sun. The optimism he’d wielded like a shield growing up, trying to convince himself that _tomorrow_ would be better, that _tomorrow_ he’d finally belong, is nothing more than his foundation now.

The same optimism is what fuels his steadfast love for a city that wants him, needs him. 

He gets it.

His parents just want to keep him safe.

But what’s the point of staying safe at the expense of something much greater? 

Youngmin—no, _Busan Boy_ ’s mentality is simple: _If I can do good, why shouldn’t I?_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Woojin lets himself in through Youngmin’s balcony window after punching a hole through the glass to unlock it. 

It’s two in the morning. 

“You could have, like, I don’t know, _knocked_?” Donghyun suggests after the fact. “I mean, I get that you’re a bigshot superhero, but we have to pay for the repairs ourselves and our landlord fucking hates us already as it is.” 

In response, Woojin lets out a disgruntled sigh and offers Donghyun a pointed look. He’s already torn his mask off at this point and in the dark, it’s hard to see, but he’s clutching his shoulder too tightly. 

“Your place was the closest,” explains Woojin. “By the way, I’m _bleeding_. I could be dying. Shouldn’t that have been the first thing you noticed instead of your stupid window?”

Youngmin sighs. “Stop fighting. You’ll wake up the neighbors.” 

“ _Speaking_ of neighbors,” murmurs Donghyun.

“Wouldn’t it have been better for you to go home?” Youngmin continues, _louder_. “Jihoon could fix you up better than either of us.” 

“Hey, I’m a med student. I could fix _any_ of you guys up in my sleep.”

Woojin glowers, looking uncharacteristically affected by what should just be a normal flesh wound. Jihoon, Woojin’s roommate, has a more subdued superpower—super _healing_ —and Youngmin automatically assumes the worst and figures they’re in the middle of another fight. Even in that case, Jihoon isn’t the kind of person to turn Woojin away when he needs him. 

“Masan’s kind of far.” Woojin shrugs his good shoulder. “Didn’t want to bleed over the entire city of Busan trying to get two measly bullets out of my arm. He’ll heal it up completely later. I just wanted to grab some bandages.” 

“Bullets?” echoes Youngmin at the same time that Donghyun says, “ _Measly_?”

There’s been a lot more crime than is normal these days. Leading up to his retirement and in the few weeks after it, crime had been at an all-time low, what with the influx of vigilantes vowing to keep Busan and its parameters safe. The trend seems to be rebounding in the worst way possible and he’s beginning to see it manifest in his private life.

“Bullets.” Woojin grits his teeth. “Last week, Niel hyung got hit with a baseball bat from behind when he already had his hands full. And then just yesterday, Daehwi said he ran into a super he’s never seen before. We’re starting to think Busan’s got its first legit supervillain or something on top of all of the usual assholes. Or maybe we just have shit luck.” 

Wordlessly, Donghyun walks toward the kitchen, fumbling with their shoddy shelves to procure a lovingly abused first-aid kit. Woojin follows, plopping down unceremoniously at the dining room table and blindly tossing his dusty mask to the corner. 

“You should have said something.” Youngmin shakes his head, hand sliding across the back of his neck sheepishly, guiltily. He isn’t sure what he could have done to help when he knows that donning his mask and cape again isn’t that simple, but it’s a terrible feeling knowing that his friends have been suffering while he’s been going on with his life without a care in the world.

Woojin bites back a grimace when Donghyun bends down beside him and roughly smacks Woojin’s hand away from his wound. “What would you have done, hyung?” Woojin asks. His expression softens and he glances away. “You told us to respect your decision. I’m respecting your decision.”

“Hey, come on, Woojin—” 

“I’m not asking you for help,” says Woojin. “I’m telling you that it’s _hard_ doing what we do, but especially hard right now because both of you wanted to know.” 

“Sorry to break up this heart-to-heart,” Donghyun interjects, “but I think we’re out of bandages.”

All three of their stares flit to the first-aid kit and Youngmin tries to summon to memory the last time they had it replaced. There hasn’t been as much need to replace it ever since he graduated from local hero to neighborhood book store employee. Paper cuts don't require half as much maintenance as bullet wounds, after all. 

He parts his lips to suggest that they call up one of their other friends when a knock at the door pierces through his words like a knife. 

Woojin’s eyes widen in alarm and Donghyun grits his teeth before hoisting Woojin’s good arm over his shoulders and helping him up hastily. 

“Let’s go to my room,” he says in a whisper, to which Woojin only nods. 

As they hobble to Donghyun’s bedroom as quickly as they can, Youngmin flits to the door, taking a passing second to peer through their eyehole, hand already turning the doorknob before he even has a chance to process who their late-night guest is. 

“Sewoon?” Youngmin stammers out in panicked greeting. His heart’s halfway in his throat from how rapidly it’s been racing and he has to steel himself to stop from glancing back at Donghyun’s now-closed bedroom door.

“Hyung?” Sewoon looks younger when he's half-asleep. His hair’s mussed beneath the hood of his sweater, the dark circles beneath his eyes especially accentuated under the harsh yellow light of their building’s hallway. He’s hugging himself, wearing a too-large sweatshirt over faded goldfish-print pajama pants. “I heard a crashing noise and the sound of something shattering, so I thought I’d check up on you guys.” 

He’s only relieved that Sewoon hasn’t prematurely called the police and Youngmin barely remembers, in the midst of his swarming thoughts, to mutter out a feeble, “Oh.” 

“Are you… okay?” The sincerity in Sewoon’s gaze catches Youngmin off-guard. His neighbors have always been friendly, but no one—in the past three and a half years that he and Donghyun have occupied this place—has ever been this intentional. It’s not that he’s suspicious, either, because Sewoon’s motives seem nonexistent, _completely_ organic. He's just surprised. Sewoon's a genuinely nice kid and Youngmin almost wishes he wasn't so it'd be easier to avoid him “Sorry if I woke you up. Maybe I imagined it?”

“Do you,” Youngmin starts, “do you have any bandages? Cloth ones. We ran out.” 

He might as well tell Sewoon his secret while he’s already revealing so much but Sewoon doesn’t probe any further and Youngmin doesn’t say anything more. 

“I do,” Sewoon says instead, taking one step back. “Wait here.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **Park Woojin**  
can u tell that dude thank u for me? he’s way better at wrapping bandages than donghyun hyung lol 

 

 **Park Woojin**  
can u tell donghyun hyung to drop out of med school while ur at it his dumb ass is going to get sued for malpractice someday i swear

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Where’d you learn to dress wounds?” Youngmin finally musters up the courage to ask. By chance, he runs into Sewoon at the convenience store when he’s trying to grab a _samgak kimbap_ or two to make up for the lunch he didn’t have the time to pack this morning. He’d like to blame a certain someone for disrupting his sleep (Youngmin’s _old_ and _sensitive_ so his sleep schedule is too) but the entire morning was spent fielding passive-aggressive apologies from a stubbornly unemotional Woojin, so the minimal bitterness Youngmin had initially felt is already gone. 

Sewoon looks up from the two identical cartons of strawberry milk he seems to be having trouble deciding between. “My mom’s a nurse,” he says. And then, as an afterthought: “The kids at work get hurt every other day. I thought it’d be a good life skill.” 

Youngmin chooses the tuna mayo and _Jeonju bibim_ and, after a second of hesitation, reaches out to pluck the two pink cartons from Sewoon’s hands. 

“Oh. You like strawberry milk too?” Sewoon asks, instead of expressing any sort of confusion or indignation. 

“Let me buy them for you,” Youngmin answers. “I… uh. To thank you. For helping last night.” 

“You don’t have to do that—”

“I want to. Seriously.” 

Sewoon falls quiet, contemplation written deep into his features. “Okay,” he decides. “Sure. Thank you, hyung.”

And he stays quiet after that until Youngmin’s finished paying and they step outside of the store onto the sidewalk. He wants to ask Sewoon if he’d like to talk for a bit but he isn’t sure how. As it turns out, Youngmin doesn’t need to ask; he flounders for a bit before sitting at one of the plastic picnic tables outside of the store and Sewoon is wordless as he follows suit. 

“So, you said your mom’s a nurse.” Youngmin almost grimaces at how awkward this is. “Is she still…?” 

The perpetual calm in Sewoon’s expression breaks when he laughs. “Are you interested in my parents?” 

“That’s not—” His cheeks are probably a little pink, his ears red. Youngmin laughs too, nervously. “Was that a weird question?” 

“A little,” Sewoon says. “My mom’s a nice lady though. I don’t blame you for being curious.” 

He laughs again, and this time it’s a mix of amusement and genuine uncertainty at the strange but endearing absurdity that Sewoon is imbued with. It’s only been a little over a week since their first fateful conversation but Youngmin feels an affinity for something in the way Sewoon carries himself. 

“She’s still a nurse.” There’s a brief silence, interrupted by the tight _pop!_ of Sewoon’s plastic straw piercing the milk carton. “It can be a little overwhelming. She flip flops between saying _It won’t kill you_ to crowding me. When I hurt my hands last year, she wouldn’t let me out of her sight the first few weeks.” 

And just like that, Youngmin’s stomach sinks. His hands are already starting to feel clammy, the bite of rice and seaweed in his mouth turning to ash as he swallows thickly. “You hurt your hands?” he asks, and he’s praying that he doesn’t sound as choked up as he thinks he might. 

Still, as hung up on the incident as Youngmin is, Sewoon doesn’t seem miffed at all. 

“In an accident,” confirms Sewoon. He sips his strawberry milk idly, humming to himself as though trying to recollect the finer details. “Car accident. I thought I was going to die, honestly.” 

_I know,_ Youngmin doesn’t say.

“Ah, sorry.” Sewoon straightens up as though he’s snapping out of a daze. “I didn’t mean to say so much. It just… came out. You’re easy to relax around. I let my guard down.”

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to apologize. That makes it awkward, you know?” Youngmin grins instinctively. “You… I don’t know how to say this so don’t take it the wrong way, but you seem happy with your life. I-I mean, in spite of everything you’ve endured?”

Sewoon gazes at Youngmin for a second too long again before ducking his head, smiling to himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and then, louder: “Yeah. I guess I am.” 

“That’s good,” Youngmin manages. His mouth’s dry and he doesn’t make a move to unwrap his second _kimbap_. “I’m happy for you.”

He can tell Sewoon wants to ask a question but for a short while, nothing comes.

“It took a little while,” Sewoon admits. “To be happy, I mean. I had to think about a lot of big things… a lot of little things. There was just a lot to… to put into perspective. But I’m happy now. Grateful.”

“That’s good,” repeats Youngmin. “That’s really good.”

This time, Sewoon smiles at Youngmin, _for_ Youngmin. He’s already finished with his second milk carton and Youngmin only has the time to wonder for a second how much time has passed when Sewoon says, “Thanks, hyung. I hope you’re happy too.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s really mostly Woojin’s fault. 

Youngmin comes home from an unexpectedly long shift one afternoon to find that there are _more_ than necessary people filling up his living room. 

“Hi,” is the first thing Jihoon says. He has approximately six sticks of _Pepero_ jutting out of his mouth and Youngmin makes a note to himself to keep his snacks better hidden. “We invited ourselves over.” 

“We?” Youngmin blinks, bleary-eyed. He’s about to ask again when he hears a clattering in the kitchen and the sound of Woojin cursing. “I see.” 

“Oh, but—” Two sticks of _Pepero_ fall from between Jihoon’s lips as he scrambles to tack on an addendum to his previous statement, but he’s interrupted by Donghyun stumbling out of his bedroom, caught in-between a yawn, and Sewoon peeking his head out the entryway of the kitchen, donning a blue apron neither Youngmin nor Donghyun have touched since moving in. “Yeah, him too.”

“Is the food done yet?” Donghyun asks, stretching an arm above his head.

“Almost,” Sewoon replies easily. “Hi, Youngmin hyung. How was work?”

Youngmin freezes. “Good?” He has zero idea what’s happening right now. “Are you—why is—is everyone—what’s going—”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Woojin shouts from the kitchen again. 

Sewoon smiles apologetically. “I should probably go check on him.”

As soon as Sewoon disappears, Youngmin turns to Donghyun and Jihoon and shoots them his most pointed, betrayed look. There’s little remorse on Donghyun’s face but Jihoon has the decency to look a little guilty. 

“Woojin and I came to drop something off,” Jihoon explains, tone uncharacteristically meek. “And then we ran into Sewoon hyung in the hall… and Woojin wanted to thank him for patching him up the other night, so—”

“You _invited him into my apartment_?” Youngmin finishes.

“…Yeah.” 

“God knows you’d never do it yourself,” Donghyun says with a half-hearted shrug. “Apparently, he’s good at cooking. So, I asked him if he wanted to stay for dinner.” 

“You’re _making him cook._ ”

“Technically, Woojin’s helping.” Donghyun pauses when he hears Woojin scream from the kitchen, Sewoon’s _it’s okay, it’s just a little fire_ barely audible amidst the dolphin shrieks. “Allegedly. Sewoon hyung offered.”

Jihoon snaps one of the biscuit sticks in half. “He’s really nice,” he says, as though Youngmin isn’t painfully aware. “And patient. They’ve been trying to cook for like, man, I don’t know… two hours now?” 

Youngmin reaches for the painkillers on the table without saying another word. 

It takes another thirty minutes after that (thirty long minutes of Woojin shrieking every other second, and Donghyun waggling his eyebrows suggestively while asking Youngmin to get him a variety of irrelevant objects found only in the kitchen), but eventually, Woojin steps out of the kitchen with gusto, holding a steaming pot of _tteokbokki_ with the world’s proudest grin on his face. 

“I’ll pay both of you ₩10,000 to pretend it tastes good,” Jihoon whispers discreetly, and it’s a valiant preemptive attempt at salvaging Woojin’s fragile ego. 

“Sorry it took so long,” Sewoon apologizes at the same time that Woojin says, “Get ready to get your asses kicked to _Flavor Town_.”

Donghyun and Youngmin scramble to set-up (if only because Woojin holding dangerously hot things for too long a time has proven to be more detrimental than not in the past), setting down a trivet and grabbing utensils by the handful. 

They’re all settling into their respective seats slowly but surely and Youngmin’s more focused on the food than anything when he hears Sewoon’s voice chime in, effectively silencing the entire room’s indistinct chatter and clamor.

“Woojin, this mask is yours, right?” Sewoon asks, lifting up the characteristic _Snaggletooth Tiger_ mask Youngmin distinctly remembers Woojin hurling into the abyss a few nights ago. “Here. You should be careful not to lose it.”

Sewoon sits down nonchalantly, as though he hasn’t just called out a vigilante that no humdrum civilian in Busan is supposed to know the true identity of. 

“That’s not Woojin’s mask,” Jihoon says unconvincingly, and a beat too-late. “Th—I, uh, I mean, it is! You’re… Because Woojin… Woojin, you’re a fan of the _Snaggletooth Tiger_ , aren’t you?”

Woojin snaps his jaw shut immediately and nods, too insistent. “Yeah!” His eyes are _shaking_ and Youngmin doesn’t blame him. “Of course. I love that guy. He’s dope. You like him too, Sewoon hyung?”

He’d like to add something to secure the lie, but Youngmin’s at a loss for words. 

“Wow, Sewoon hyung. You’re into superheroes too?” Donghyun offers a forced laugh. “Woojin works at a comic book store. Did you know that? Maybe he can get you a discount or someth—”

“ _Ah_. Sorry,” Sewoon says. Realization dawns on him slowly, as though he himself isn’t aware of what, exactly, he’s done. He scratches his cheek, setting his chopsticks down on the table. “I’ve known Youngmin hyung was _Busan Boy_ since I met him… and then the other night when I was helping Woojin, I saw the mask and put two and two together… Sorry. I forgot I’m not supposed to know.” 

He feels his stomach twist again, discomfort and panic rising up his throat like bile. This is where he should protest, should laugh it off, pretend _none_ of what Sewoon’s saying terrifies him (because the truth always does). His lips are tight though and Youngmin doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until Donghyun reaches across from beneath the table to grip his wrist securely. 

“That—” Woojin trails off, and it’s strange how desperately he looks at Youngmin, like he’s begging—not for help, but—for permission. “It’s not—”

“How’d you know?” Youngmin finally, _finally_ manages to say. He isn’t sure what he’s doing, his mouth moving on its own, in complete disconnect from the rational part of his mind. The rest of his friends must be shocked too because the room gets quieter by the second and he can feel Donghyun’s grip loosening. “How’d you figure it out?”

A part of him needs to know the answer. He needs to know if Sewoon is happy now because Youngmin’s not on the streets anymore interfering with and ruining lives that never asked to be saved. He needs to know what Sewoon’s thinking—how Sewoon’s feeling, how he’s _been_ feeling the past few weeks, the past year since that rainy night during monsoon season. 

In pin-drop silence, all Sewoon does for a few age-long moments is hum. 

“One of the nurses told me back when I hurt my hands that there was someone who kept dropping by to check up on me,” explains Sewoon. “He kept telling me that I was lucky to have such caring friends and I asked all of my friends why they never said ‘hi’ but no one knew what I was talking about. So, I asked the nurse about it. He told me your name and said you’d asked him not to tell me that you’d been visiting so I wouldn’t be burdened by it.

“I didn’t recognize your name. I didn’t really think much of it either until a few months passed and I finally, finally mustered up the courage to say <>i>thank you to the superhero that saved my life, only for him to step down. I... I guess I remembered your voice. You kept talking to me the night of the accident, telling me to ‘ _please hold on_ ’ and ‘ _I’ll make sure you’re okay,_ ’ the entire time you were trying to get me out of the wreck. How could I forget it? It was the last thing I heard before I thought I was going to die.” 

There’s a dull ache at the very center of Youngmin’s chest that blooms with each passing breath and he’s at a loss for why it hurts so much hearing what he thinks might be the closest thing to forgiveness that he’ll ever get. 

He’s scared to look at Sewoon, _terrified_ of seeing the expression on Sewoon’s face.

Is he hurt? Is he nostalgic? Is he bitter? Is he _sad_? 

Youngmin opens his hands, palms down against his knees. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, to keep himself from interjecting, from confessing that he _doesn’t_ deserve this. 

“When I ran into you again in the apartment lobby and it was pouring outside and I heard your voice, heard your _name_ , I thought it was fate.” 

“Fate?” Youngmin dares to ask.

“You saved my life.” Sewoon smiles just as Youngmin lifts his head to meet his gaze and it’s right then and there that Youngmin swears his heart stops. “I had to figure out who you were so I could say ‘ _thank you_.’ The world swept me up and dropped me where I needed to be. It was like the universe was telling me, ‘ _there, here you go. He’s waiting._ ’

So. It’s been too long and it might be too late, but thank you, hyung, for saving me when I didn’t realize I needed it.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The dynamic shifts dramatically after Sewoon admits that he knows, _has known_ , their secret identities. 

Donghyun ends up breaking the tense, almost _melancholic_ mood with a joke, asks Sewoon to match the hero _he’s_ parading as at night (he _isn’t_ ). Sewoon laughs, says _“You’re going to be a doctor someday. I guess that’s heroic enough.”_

And everyone else moves on, diving into lukewarm food with little complaint and going on with their mindless chatter in deep-set feigned ignorance of the conversation that just happened. 

The dynamic shifts dramatically. Woojin and Jihoon are a lot more relaxed around Sewoon right off the bat. Donghyun’s always been sort of fond of him, but he’s even more so when he realizes he finally has a _normal_ human with zero superpowers to commiserate with.

At the end of the day, at the start of the next morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that—it’s only Youngmin who’s left with that unsettled feeling at the bottom of his stomach that ask him, taunts him, says: _Why aren’t you satisfied?_

He pushes it to the back of his mind. He doesn’t want to let himself get hung up on it when everyone’s moved on. They can trust Sewoon; and even if they _couldn’t_ , there’s no physical, undeniable proof that could make the city of Busan believe the truth without their acquiescence. 

He tries not to think about it. And it doesn’t seem like anyone else wants to either. 

That is, until Youngmin finds himself idling on the rooftop, half-empty can of beer in his hand, relishing solitude only for the knob of the door to jangle insistently before creaking open. 

“Sorry—” Sewoon’s voice carries across the open sky too clearly and it sends a chill down Youngmin’s spine. “ _Oh_ ,” he says soon after. “Youngmin hyung?”

He doesn’t want to, but he turns, offering a tired smile and a tip of the can in Sewoon’s direction before facing forward again, waiting quietly for Sewoon to approach him. And he does, clambering over the rooftop ledge until he’s sitting beside Youngmin, a foot of distance between them. 

“The air’s nice up here,” Sewoon says.

“Yeah.” Youngmin closes his eyes. They’ve had a few trite conversations since the big confession, but he hasn’t really been in Sewoon’s company in this sort of quiet in a long while—not since their convenience store run-in. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, the comforting whistle of the late-night wind that eases Youngmin’s nerves. Maybe it’s Sewoon, the way his breathing—barely audible—steadies the pace of Youngmin’s heartbeat. He feels bolder than he did ten seconds ago and he isn't sure why but he wants to make the most of it. “Hey, can I… Can I ask you something?”

“Sure," replies Sewoon, and he doesn't even miss a beat.

“Your hands,” Youngmin begins to say, “are they okay now?”

Sewoon chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “For a long while, they weren’t. Long enough that I gave up what I thought was my dream. But they’re okay now, really. Okay enough to do what makes me happy. My new dream.” 

“And you’re happy, right?” He imagines Sewoon playing with his preschoolers, bent at the waist to hold their hands, to guide them from one corner of the classroom to the other. Youngmin bites back a smile. 

“Yeah,” Sewoon says again. “I am. Yesterday, I was happy. Today, I’m happy. Tomorrow, I’ll be happy.”

“That’s a relief,” Youngmin murmurs.

“Can I ask you a question too?” 

Youngmin sets his can on the concrete beside him. “What’s up?”

“Why did you step down from being a hero?” 

His eyes open then and Youngmin laughs—maybe it’s a nervous tick—before he can manage to formulate a skeleton of an answer in his mind. There’s no easy, simple way of putting it; not when he’s sitting beside the person that made him rethink the most significant chunk of his life with a single, indirect encounter. It wouldn’t be fair, would it? It wouldn’t be fair to make Sewoon feel like it was his fault because it never was. 

Even now, when Youngmin looks back, he knows that retirement was a good choice for him, the _right_ choice. There was no way he could go about being a hero if he couldn’t shake the mentality that he had to save everyone—that everyone _needed_ to be saved in order for him to breathe easy. 

When Youngmin looks back, he can recognize his selfishness clearly. Sewoon’s accident might have been one of many catalysts, a tiny fraction of a whole that was already on the verge of fracturing. 

“You’re asking a hard question,” Youngmin says. “The one every reporter in Busan wants to know the answer to.”

“I’m not a reporter,” Sewoon replies quietly. 

“I just—I don’t think my head was in the right place.” Youngmin lets out a mix between a sigh and a laugh. “I don’t think my heart was in the right place. After your accident, after seeing that maybe I saved your life but I took something incredibly important away from you without even knowing it… I started to doubt if I was doing the right thing at all, if I had the judgment to be a good superhero.” 

“I’m sorry—”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He smiles, turns his head to look Sewoon straight in the eye. Maybe it’s too brave of him but he reaches across, places his palm over Sewoon’s hand. “It really wasn’t your fault. I _promise_.”

Sewoon stills. 

“I couldn’t snap out of it. You can’t really save people’s lives if you’re second-guessing everything you do. And like I said, it wasn’t your fault. I think it was a slow build-up. When you start off as Busan’s only superhero, you get unintentionally pampered along the way. Everyone’s so grateful for the things you do, big or small, that you don’t really think much about the other side of the coin. I got too used to it. I got complacent. I shouldn’t… have been playing vigilante just because the world around me praised me for it, you know? I should be doing it, first and foremost, because I want to, not because I think I have to if I want to be loved.” 

“Busan _does_ love you,” Sewoon says, and there’s a quiet fierceness to his words, an unspoken promise that makes Youngmin’s bones ache with nostalgia. “Then, but even now, Busan loves you.” 

“They love _Busan Boy_ ,” corrects Youngmin. He squeezes Sewoon’s hand once before retracting his, leaning back just far enough that he doesn’t fall. “Busan doesn’t know me. I’m just a twenty-something trying to get by.” 

“I know you.” A moment’s hesitation materializes before fading, once more, into nothing. “Can I… say that? Can I say that I know you?” 

“You know me,” Youngmin affirms, “but you’re one person. I care about you, I care about what you think—I’ve cared about all sorts of stuff pertaining to _you_ ever since I met you. But that’s not what a hero’s about, is it? I should care about _everyone_. I should be able to save _everyone_ instead of only thinking about saving myself.”

“Hyung.”

“I’m okay.” And he’s not sure if he’s comforting himself or if he’s comforting Sewoon. “I’ll be happy too.”

“Hyung,” Sewoon repeats. “We’ve only known each other for a short period of time but I feel like I’ve known you for longer. Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about you ever since you saved my life. I’ve felt a lot of things for you. I’ve hated you, spited you, missed you, lov—looked for you, and it made no difference to me when I got over my initial hurt and bitterness how many people you’d saved, or if you were only thinking of yourself, or… or anything like that. You saved me. And maybe _I’m_ the one being selfish because that’s all that really mattered to me then. You’re a superhero, hyung, but you’re not a god. You can’t save everybody and that’s okay. You can save yourself and still be a hero to someone else. Don’t you think you’re being too hard on yourself?” 

“I just… don’t want to be selfish.”

“I know. No one does.” The smile on Sewoon’s lips is soft, apologetic, _empathetic_. “You can be a hero even if you second-guess yourself. Aren’t you human too?”

Youngmin closes his eyes again, covers them with one hand, tilting his head back. He wants to smile, wants to laugh, wants to scream, wants to cry. 

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I really, really don’t know, Sewoon.” 

From beside him, he hears Sewoon shifting, repositioning himself. When Youngmin puts his hand down and opens his eyes, Sewoon’s standing, feet creeping over the ledge of the building down into the cityscape.

“Sewoon?” Youngmin asks, vague alarm building in his blood. 

“I can prove it,” Sewoon says, arms folded behind his back. “I can prove you’re not selfish.” 

And before Youngmin has the opportunity to even utter a _why_ , Sewoon’s taking a step off of the concrete perimeters of the building, diving straight into a ten-story plunge. 

It’s instinct, really, that pushes Youngmin off after him. He hasn’t used his superpowers in a long, long while, but flight comes to him naturally, the wind nothing more than a gentle embrace as it lifts him lazily, even as he’s clinging onto Sewoon’s body for dear life.

“Are you _insane_?” Youngmin gasps out, eyes wide and shock blatant in his tone. He’s holding Sewoon as tightly as he can, one arm under his legs and the other under his back. “Why would you do that? What if you’d gotten hurt?” 

“I’m not… I'm not usually that reckless,” is what Sewoon says first, and there’s a dip to his tone, maybe born from a natural sort of fear. There’s a part of him that wasn’t thinking straight when he jumped, and Youngmin knows that. “But I knew you’d save me.” 

Sewoon wraps his arms around Youngmin’s neck, anchoring himself closer, and it’s only then that Youngmin feels the trembling. He's scared. Who wouldn’t be?

“Of course.” Youngmin winces when a particularly unforgiving gale of wind slaps him in the face. He spots the nearest building and sets off for there, attention divided between the boy in his arms and the closest thing to safety he can find. “If you’re about to get hurt, about to _die_ in front of me, of course I’d try to save you. Isn’t that natural? I’d do it for anybody—”

“I know you would,” Sewoon says, firmer. “Because you have the judgment of a superhero. Because you _care_ about keeping the city safe for the sake of the city, not for your own sake.”

It’s only when his feet touch solid ground that he loosens his grasp on Sewoon. 

“You’re out of your mind,” is the first thing Youngmin manages to say, followed by a breathless, “ _Why_ would you go that far to prove a point?”

Sewoon seems embarrassed too, like he can’t wrap his mind around why he did what he did either. But a second passes by and the resolve settles in. “You didn’t save me because you thought you had to. You saved me because I needed to be saved and you knew you could do it.” He shifts, falling out of Youngmin’s embrace and landing on his feet. “Any other hero could have saved me that day, but they didn’t, and you did. You can’t save everyone all at once, and I… I don’t think it makes much sense to set impossible goals for yourself, hyung. I’m part of everyone, aren’t I? Each single person you’ve saved because you wanted them to live is a part of everyone, aren’t they?”

There seems to be a trend when it comes to Sewoon. Youngmin’s heart is unforgiving in the way it clenches, twists, _aches_ with each word Sewoon offers him on a silver platter. There’s such sincerity in the way Sewoon speaks to him, looks at him, reaches out to him, that Youngmin’s beginning to wonder what he did in a past life to deserve any semblance of this affection. 

What Sewoon said earlier was right. They’ve only known each other like this—unfiltered, face-to-face; no masks, no walls to hide behind—for a short while, but it feels as though he’s known Sewoon for a lifetime. 

And maybe that’s why all Youngmin wants to do right this second is pull him close, pull him tight again, say _thank you thank you thank you._

“Sewoon,” Youngmin chokes out instead. 

“I really, really mean it when I say you’re my hero.” Sewoon’s hands are still trembling but he musters up a smile. “And maybe I’m not an entire city, but I’m one person that cares about you more than words can say.” 

What he wants Sewoon to know is this: _it’s not your fault_ , _please stop talking as though you’re not enough_ , _you don’t have to be an entire city._

What he manages to say in the middle of the night, surrounded only by the gaudily lit signs of _Seomyeon_ ’s insomniac buildings, is this: 

“Thank you.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sewoon makes no mention of his daring feat and Youngmin doesn’t really want to bring it up on his own—so they keep it a secret, well-kept between the two of them. 

There are loose ends waiting to be tied. It feels as though something has changed and Youngmin can’t quite put his finger on it (or he _can_ , but maybe he’s afraid to). 

They go about their usual routine: lunch hours spent idling at the convenience store, taking turns buying _samgak kimbap_ and cartons of strawberry milk by the pair; every now and then, Donghyun will complain about wanting to eat _real food_ and drag Sewoon into their apartment for dinner in exchange for Donghyun’s never-ending supply of sharp jabs at Youngmin’s pride; Woojin and Jihoon drop by occasionally when they’re bored in their down-time. 

Every now and then, he and Sewoon will sit centimeters apart, shoulders just barely touching, hands brushing—and it’ll make Youngmin wonder if there’s meant to be more than just this; if there’s something beyond their mutual tiptoeing on shards of glass that Youngmin might deserve. 

“How did you,” he begins hesitantly, “realize you were in love with Jihoon?”

Woojin looks up from his third cup ramen of the evening with a look that can only spell disgust. “ _Excuse_ me?” 

“Never mind,” Youngmin starts to say.

“Don’t ‘never mind’ me,” Woojin interjects, raising his tone when he air-quotes the _never mind_ all too obnoxiously. “Are you dating someone?”

“I’m not dating anyone.” He’s already beginning to regret talking to Woojin of all people, but Donghyun won’t tell Youngmin anything about the _Gwanghyun_ kid he’s been pining over for the last semester, Jihoon’s not present, and Daniel and Daehwi only ever come by on holidays or when there’s good meat cooking so they’re equally inaccessible. “I’m asking you hypothetically.”

“ _Hypothetically_.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Okay, sure, and my name’s Zico.” Woojin rolls his eyes. For a second, Youngmin thinks this is going to be a waste of his time, but Woojin sets his emptied cup on the table and looks at Youngmin critically. “You’re never going to get it in one single _aha!_ moment. Or, well, maybe you will if you’ve done enough good deeds in your past life or something, but it’s—it’s like a… process. You realize you might like someone, and then they keep doing things, you keep spending time with them, and you have these continuous ‘ _oh shit, is this love?_ ’ moments. Isn’t it kind of natural from there? You want to spend even more of your time with them. You want to hold their hands and stuff. They do stupid shit but you still like them just as much as you did yesterday, if not more.”

It might be his young age, but Woojin’s never been the most expressive kid, even growing up. Youngmin’s spent a childhood and more with him but very little’s changed; he’s just as energetic, just as rowdy, and just as rough around the edges. But when it comes to Jihoon, Woojin always talks differently, _acts_ differently. He’s softer, the flint in his eyes reduced to nothing but the fickle flame of a candle. 

“I realized I really, really liked… er, uh, loved, I guess? I realized I loved Jihoon when he was shit drunk and singing LOONA songs at the top of his lungs in the middle of the beach. There’s literally no rhyme or reason. If you look at someone and you just think, ‘ _holy shit, all I want to do is hug them close and never ever let go,_ ’ there’s an alarmingly high chance that you might have the feelios for them.” 

Youngmin stifles a laugh and Woojin grins, like he's proud of his jokes. 

“Don’t rush, you know? But like, also, carpe diem.” Woojin waves a hand flippantly. “Don’t overthink it, I say, as you’re probably already overthinking it—but seriously, hyung. Just follow your gut. You’ve got a good gut. Probably thanks to your mom’s kimchi.” He raises a brow, offering Youngmin an exaggeratedly suspicious smirk. “I’m sure Sewoon hyung feels the same.”

“Th—what?” Youngmin coughs, gaze darting away from Woojin’s incriminating stare. “I didn’t say anything about who it was.”

“Yeah, yeah, as if it’d be anyone but Sewoon hyung. We’re not blind. We see the way you guys bump shoulders and look at each other with stars in your eyes like you’re twelve-years-old.” He’s teasing and Youngmin is _sufficiently_ embarrassed, but Woojin’s expression eases into something a little gentler not a second later. “Just trust yourself, hyung. And trust Sewoon hyung.”

The advice seems simple enough coming out of Woojin’s mouth and Youngmin knows, rationally, that it really _is_ that simple.

He’s prone to overthinking, to worrying about every little detail, but the last few days have been difficult—all he can think about is Sewoon’s weight in his arms and the way he felt like the entire world around him suspended in motion when he felt the faint trembling of Sewoon’s body despite his act of forced bravado. 

It’s dramatic but he thinks he might have been two seconds from kissing him then. 

And thinking back, maybe he should have. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

At some point, Sewoon graduates from being just their neighbor and friend to knowing that they keep a spare key hidden beneath the potted cactus at their door. It’s not an issue because Youngmin and Donghyun have no complaints about waking up to breakfast waiting for them on the table on days where Sewoon overestimates himself.

Today’s one of those days.

Youngmin shuffles out of his bedroom, half-awake, fully intending on making the most of his day off when he catches sight of two sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper sitting on the dining room table. There’s a simple bright blue post-it loosely stuck to one of them: _could taste bad because I might have mixed up the sugar and salt!_

A few hours pass and he wastes his time clicking through news articles, reviewing coverage on his friends’ heroic deeds, carefully bypassing any mention of _Busan Boy_ and how _he will always be sincerely missed_. It’s barely one in the afternoon when he gets an incoming call from Daniel. Donghyun’s still asleep and Youngmin hasn’t done anything substantive with his time. He isn’t expecting much when he picks up, but he’s met with the sound of short, sharp breaths and Daniel’s voice punctuated between them.

“Hyung?” Daniel calls out. “Hyung, are you there? _Ah, fuck_.”

“Daniel? What is it? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, that’s not the—” He curses indecipherably. “That’s not the issue. I’ve got my hands full. Woojin and Jihoon are on the other side of town. Daehwi’s not picking up his phone. I didn’t know who else to call but _hyung_ , I think I might have seen someone taking Sewoon in _Sujeong-dong_?” 

It’s like his blood freezes in that moment, every inch of his body suspended in slow-motion. 

“Call the police,” Youngmin says as calmly as he can manage. “I can’t—”

“This isn’t—” Daniel cuts himself off abruptly and there’s a thudding noise. Someone groans. “He doesn’t need the police right now. He needs a hero. He needs _you_.” 

There’s a full costume collecting dust at the very back corner of his closet. Sentimentality made it too difficult to throw away; that, and he’s always considered it a reminder of the better things he’s done with his life. Youngmin spent months with zero consideration for that costume, only started wondering if he would ever don it again when Sewoon stumbled into his life and peered past doors Youngmin hadn’t even realized he’d left open. 

Still, he’s doubtful. It’s been _months_. He’s only just recently come to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, he could be _Busan Boy_ again if the city really needed it. 

But Sewoon’s not a city, is he? Sewoon’s one boy, a single person out of a vast population.

“Hyung,” Daniel urges. 

Sewoon’s one boy, one person, a single fraction of _everyone_ —but maybe, just maybe, that’s always been more than enough. 

“I’ll,” Youngmin mumbles before saying, louder, “I’ll take care of it.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

( _Busan Boy_ ’s costume consists of dark blue and white to embody the city of Busan’s emblem. It’s an original, something every citizen of Busan recognizes even from miles away. 

For that reason alone, it’s a burden to wear this costume when he doesn’t think he can carry the weight of its implications. 

Or, he didn’t think he could carry the weight. Not ever again. Not until _now_. Things have changed considerably over the past few weeks and he’s taking baby steps toward finding purpose in the individual battles instead of desperately seeking all parts of a whole. 

There are other heroes in Busan that could rush to the aid of civilians in need. 

And though he doesn’t wave his hand in front of television cameras or do post-crime interviews with nosy reporters anymore, there’s no one in this city that would turn their heads in disagreement if someone called him—if someone called _Busan Boy_ —a hero, to this day.

So, maybe he doesn’t have an obligation anymore.

But he has a choice, doesn’t he? 

It’s an easy one, too.)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Ah, hyung,” is the first thing Sewoon says when Youngmin finds him suspended upside down in an old abandoned warehouse that smells distinctly of rotting fish. He squints at Youngmin. “I… Maybe I should call you sir? _Busan Boy_ sir?”

Youngmin covers his face with his hand, slides it down his cheek agonizingly slowly. “Are you even in danger,” he deadpans. 

“I was,” Sewoon replies, as honest as ever. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds up (or maybe he holds down) a hand. “I, sorry—the blood rush is kind of—ah, _ow_.”

He stifles a sigh before beginning the arduous process of untying Sewoon from the ropes coiled around his ankles without accidentally dropping him on the unforgiving cement floor. It takes a few seconds, a little bit of struggling, some twisting and turning, but Sewoon eventually stands on his own two feet, suffering a minimal amount of vertigo. 

“Thanks.” Sewoon smiles, brushing invisible lint off of his hair. 

This entire scene is ridiculous: one run-of-the-mill boy and another one wearing a superhero get-up standing in the middle of a giant, _empty_ warehouse that smells like a neglected corner of the deep ocean. 

“He left his oven on,” explains Sewoon. 

Youngmin raises a brow.

“I saw him stealing an elderly lady’s wallet,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “so I asked him to return it and he… brought me here instead. I think he said to ‘keep me quiet’?” 

Youngmin closes his eyes tightly.

“But then he realized he left his oven on.” Sewoon peers at the padlocked door and the window way above that Youngmin flew in through. “Thanks for saving me.”

Youngmin _sighs_. The exhale comes out as exasperation but it’s more relief than anything. He’s glad that Sewoon’s safe, that what could have been a huge debacle ended almost comically. With a shake of the head, Youngmin reaches up to tug the mask off of his face. “You hardly needed saving,” he says.

“Maybe you just make it look easy,” suggests Sewoon. He’s smiling, still, as he reaches out to take the _Busan Boy_ mask from Youngmin’s hands. For a second, they stand like that in silence as Sewoon turns it over between his fingertips. “This suits you.”

“You’re biased,” Youngmin says with a half-hearted roll of the eyes. 

“I am,” Sewoon agrees. “So is the rest of Busan. Wouldn’t it be stranger if we didn’t have a soft spot for our city’s first hero?” He extends his hand, extends the mask—Youngmin’s mask—out, poised to return it. “It might be hard to see but I’m really happy right now.”

Youngmin hesitates before reaching out, wrapping his hand around Sewoon’s instead of just around his latex _emblem_. “Because I saved you?”

“Kind of. I guess, more so… because it was _you_.” 

Sometimes, when Youngmin _really_ looks at Sewoon, he comes across as sturdier than the age-old tree growing intrusively right outside of Youngmin’s bedroom window. He never gets any sunlight because of that tree and for a long while, he hated it, begged the landlord to get it cut down, offered to cut it down himself. It took a while, maybe up until last year during _thunderstorm season_ ; he had to watch half of its branches fall to nothing before realizing, too belatedly, that he’d miss it if he didn’t have it around.

Sometimes, when Youngmin looks at Sewoon, he seems small. Seems like he’s asking for help, asking to be saved. He thinks of the Sewoon crumpled up beneath a multi-car crash, thinks of the Sewoon crying faintly in his hospital bed. 

But then he remembers the Sewoon that took two steps off the rooftop of a ten-story building just to prove a point, to rebuild a hero, and he thinks, very distinctly, very poignantly, that if he lost a single part of Sewoon, if he didn’t have Sewoon around—Youngmin would undoubtedly regret it forever. 

Woojin’s words echo at the back of his mind and Youngmin thinks: _I don’t want to let you go._

“I didn’t think I’d put it on again either,” Youngmin confesses. “The mask, the cape, the costume—I let it collect dust for a reason.”

This time, it’s Sewoon who squeezes his hand. “I'm really glad,” he says.

“I guess I still have it in me?” The faintest laugh slips past Youngmin’s lips and he almost feels embarrassed, _shy_. “Thanks for making me realize that.” 

“You would have realized it eventually with or without my help,” Sewoon says kindly. 

“I’m not so sure about that.” He’s never been good with this kind of vulnerability. Youngmin has always been honest, raised to be humble and kind and sincere since he could speak. His parents never wanted him to resort to deceit and old habits die hard. Lying isn’t his forte so he doesn’t want to lie; he wants to be honest, wants to tell the whole truth. And the _truth_ is this: “Sewoon, I don’t want to be your hero.”

Sewoon gazes at Youngmin curiously, head tilting minutely to the side. “Hyung?”

“I mean,” Youngmin stammers, “I do want to be your hero, but I don’t _just_ want to be your hero. I’ve, uh… I’ve been thinking about what it is that draws me… to you. If I really look at this entire situation objectively, you’re just another civilian, you know? You’re just another one of my friends. You’re my neighbor. You’re a stranger I saved half a year back. You’re Jung Sewoon, but what does Jung Sewoon have to do with me?” 

He feels like he’s caught in limbo: wearing a superhero costume from the neck-down while being unabashedly, embarrassingly Lim Youngmin from the neck-up. 

Youngmin falters, only remembers how he got here, how far he’s come when Sewoon’s thumb taps absentmindedly against the base of Youngmin’s hand. 

“It was really… strange,” he presses. “The entire process, I mean. I—Not… not you. You _are_ strange, but not in a bad way. Ah, I, anyway. It was strange falling in love with you.” The truth is out and he steels himself, drinks in Sewoon’s reaction—the muted shock and the practiced patience, something fond lingering in his gaze. “It just happened so naturally, so unexpectedly, so _easily_ , that I didn’t even realize until that night you jumped from the rooftop and I held you in my arms and I really, really thought that if I could, if it was possible—I would never let you go.” 

“Hyung,” murmurs Sewoon.

“It’s like you said,” continues Youngmin. “We’ve only known each other like this for a short while, but if you really think about it, it’s been a long, long time, hasn’t it? Haha… From the start, you’ve thrown me off balance. You’ve made me think, made me challenge myself beyond belief and… I… I think I might like that. I think I might like growing, _changing_ , because if it’s with you or because of you, I know it’s for the better.” 

Sewoon is still, unmoving as Youngmin takes a hesitant step closer.

“I think I might like _you_ ,” Youngmin says. “I think I might _love_ you. And I don’t think I could stand to let you go.” 

“You’re cheesy,” says Sewoon, but he’s smiling—impossibly soft—as he closes the remaining distance until there are but centimeters between them. He looks at Youngmin again, their foreheads pressed gently against one another. “I love you, too, hyung.” 

The brightest smile splits across Youngmin’s lips and he lets out a shaky laugh, nerves awry as he lifts his free hand to gently cup the slope of Sewoon’s face. 

“Thank god. Can I kiss you?” Youngmin asks.

And he nearly reels when Sewoon places his hand over Youngmin’s, the tremors at the tips of his fingers soothing, as he leans forward, mouth hovering over Youngmin’s. It’s right before he presses his lips against Youngmin’s that Sewoon replies, gently, patiently, kindly as always: “Yes.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 ** _BUSAN BOY SAVES THE DAY AGAIN! A FIERY COMEBACK TO CRIME-FIGHTING! BUSAN CAN ANTICIPATE BRIGHTER DAYS AHEAD…_**

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Youngmin sighs. 

“Hyung, I understand that you’re going through a tough time being away from your boyfriend for ten minutes—”

“ _What happened to not being clingy?_ ” Woojin shouts from the airplane engine he is very desperately trying to keep from crashing into the side of City Hall. “ _You sound pretty clingy to me, you big baby!_ ”

“ _Woojin hyung_ ,” Daehwi sighs out, _loudly_. “Can you like, I don’t know, focus on the engine and focus less on us? Sorry. Anyway, Youngmin hyung… You really need to snap out of it. We’re trying to save the city from imminent danger. I like Sewoon hyung too but he’s going to understand if you’re late for your anniversary dinner because you were busy saving the Mayor from certain death…”

**Author's Note:**

> i love youngmin and i love sewoon and i have loved ryoungsen since produce 101 but haven't gotten around to writing it until... now! it was definitely a journey but i sincerely hope you enjoy. 
> 
> p.s. i'm [here](http://twitter.com/anyounghasewoon) if you'd like to say hello!


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